


Merlyn Sickness

by Prochytes



Category: Arrow (TV 2012), Torchwood
Genre: Action/Adventure, Crossover, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-09
Updated: 2013-03-09
Packaged: 2017-12-04 19:04:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,639
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/714000
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Prochytes/pseuds/Prochytes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Time’s arrow does not exclude the possibility of trick shots.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Merlyn Sickness

**Author's Note:**

> Spoilers for Doctor Who “The Empty Child" and "The Doctor Dances"” and for Torchwood 1x01: "Everything Changes”; very small spoilers for Arrow to 1x07: "Muse of Fire". Rather AU for Arrow, for reasons that should become apparent. Originally posted on LJ in 2013.

  
The black dress was decorously figure-hugging. To judge from the skin it left on display, the owner didn’t know (or didn’t care) that freckles were so last season. Dark hair piled upon the head; no heels, though she wasn’t tall enough to do without them. An understatement of expensive jewellery. She was listening, with rapt attention, to Dick Roebuck, of the Rhode Island Roebucks, who couldn’t park an anecdote in under an hour.  
  
This needed attention.  
  
“Malcolm! Great party, as always.” Roebuck took a step back to accommodate his host. “So good of you to lend your house out for the Benefit. I take it that you and this delightful creature are acquainted?”  
  
“I don’t believe we are.” Malcolm nodded gravely. “Malcolm Merlyn.”  
  
“The famous Mr. Merlyn.” The dark-haired woman smiled. “I’m Vivienne Lake.”  
  
“Pleased to meet you, Vivienne Lake. That accent tells me you’re not from around these parts. English?”  
  
A ghost of steel flickered in the eyes, though the gappy smile beneath them did not waver. Interesting. “Welsh. It’ll grow on you.”  
  
“I don’t doubt it.”  
  
“Vivienne and I were just discussing our national poets, Malcolm.”  
  
“‘As unto the bow the cord is,’” the accent verged on the sing-song, but you had to love the vowels, “‘so unto the man is woman.’”  
  
“Longfellow.” Malcolm tilted his head. “A little dated, wouldn’t you say?”  
  
“We all end up dated, Mr. Merlyn, if we live long enough.”  
  
“I suppose so. Dick, you don’t mind if I borrow Ms. Lake for a while, do you? It’s rare to find a newcomer to the house these days, and I do so enjoy delivering the guided tour.”  
  
“Well, I was just about to tell Vivienne the story behind the GVK merger....”  
  
“All the better for a build-up, Dick. The great storyteller thrives on anticipation. Can I tempt you to the tour, Ms. Lake?”  
  
“You can, Mr. Merlyn.” The Welshwoman smiled in apology at Dick Roebuck. “Show me your kingdom. I’m sure you’re good at that.”  
  
He led her through rooms of marble and burnished brass, where revellers laughed, and talked, and pretended to listen, and lifted martinis in shining toast to the already forgotten. An unseen band squeezed Vivaldi into the air. An ice sculpture wept discreetly in a corner.  
  
“How did you meet Dick?” he asked, as they threaded their way through the throng.  
  
“Biarritz. Three – no, I tell a lie, four years ago. You should ask him about that, actually. It’s a funny story.”  
  
“I’m sure. Lake... an interesting name. I don’t think I’m familiar with your family.”  
  
“You wouldn’t be. We don’t cross the Pond much, and we keep our names out of the papers. It pays to have friends in the Press.”  
  
“Don’t I know it.” Malcolm glanced around the room. To their left, the Queen girl was holding court. Thea’s eyes were just that little too bright, her speech just that little too emphatic – words landing like rain on tin. Drunk already, or high. Moira needed to put her house in order. Malcolm sighed, and turned his attention back to the woman at his arm.  
  
“Your house is beautiful. You must be tired of hearing people say that.”  
  
“Not yet.”  
  
“Through this door?”  
  
“Yes.”  
  
The room beyond was panelled with dark woods, the window still uncurtained against the dusk. Her brow wrinkled as he poured two glasses of champagne.  
  
“You don’t like the decor, Ms. Lake?”  
  
“I’m a city girl. All this oak makes me feel like I’m in a tree.” She looked beyond his shoulder, eyes widening. “Why is there a man in your garden?”  
  
He followed her gaze, and frowned. “I don’t see one.”  
  
“My eyes must be playing tricks.” She raised a glass. “To philanthropy.”  
  
“To philanthropy.” He sipped the champagne, and watched the shadows fold on her throat as she swallowed. “Besides the panelling, this room has two very interesting characteristics.”  
  
“Really?” She took another sip. “Do tell.”  
  
“Electronic locks, which I just triggered. And sound-proofing.” He set down his glass. “Which is why, Ms. Lake, I can do whatever I like in here to find out what a two-bit English – sorry, a two-bit _Welsh_ grifter is doing in my house, and no one outside will be any the wiser.”  
  
The front of affront was all but flawless, he had to admit. “I’ve no idea what you’re talking about, Mr. Merlyn, and I’ll thank you to open that door right now. Didn’t you hear me say how I met Dick? He’ll back me up.”  
  
“Of course he will.” Malcolm loosened his collar, and made a mental note to check the central heating. “Dick Roebuck has trouble remembering the topiary of his own hedge funds. If a pretty woman tells him they met in Biarritz, he’ll back her up. Classic con: let the mark’s imagination do the heavy lifting. So start talking, Ms. Lake. Because it won’t be long before you don’t remember any of this.”  
  
Her eyes flickered to the door, which he was blocking. Her shoulders slumped. In a low voice, she said, “I have an associate.”  
  
“Is this the one who’s running the con?” “If you want to call it that.” She looked away. “He’s a hero. Bad men have killed for you, Malcolm Merlyn. But good men – the best of men – have died for him.”  
  
“The Hood?”  
  
“The Starling City vigilante? No, it isn’t him. But well done, that man. The Sheriff of Nottingham isn’t a good look on you.”  
  
“I don’t need lessons in morality from a cornered hustler.”  
  
“Don’t you? All those property speculations that just _happened_ to fall before natural disasters. Are you a fan of T. H. White, Malcolm? ‘Mr. Merlyn’ – the clue’s in the name. You know the future because you’ve already lived it.”  
  
The chill in his spine matched the clammy moisture on his forehead. “ _Where are you from?_ ”  
  
She shrugged. “I’ve already told you. Wales. Principal exports: Caerphilly, Rugby Union, the Manics. Oh, and girls who switch their drinks. You’re looking a bit peaky there, Malcolm. Have you swallowed something that disagreed with you?”  
  
No heels. That should have been the clue. Grifters like heels. But, outside Starling City, no one likes being made to fight on stilts.  
  
Malcolm hurled himself forward. The world was treacle. The only things in it that still had any speed were her fists and feet. A kick to the gut rocked him on his heels, buying her time to put a desk between them.  
  
“Compound B67 – Retcon. Amnesia’s the big draw, of course. But the hit to reflexes can be handy, too. I wouldn’t want to fight you on all cylinders. Archers may care who’s best, Malcolm. I don’t. In my world all that matters is ‘good enough’. We never are.”  
  
“How do you know?” Malcolm rasped. “Who told you my secrets?”  
  
“My associate is a righteous man, Malcolm. But before he was a hero, he was something else. Wetwork. Interrogations. He was the go-to guy. And he made me.”  
  
Malcolm lunged again, trying to box her into a corner. Someone – someone good – had found the bruiser inside a small, freckly Welshwoman the way sculptors saw statues inside marble. Still, even without his speed, he was bigger, stronger, better trained.  
  
But she saw the Sevateem nerve strike coming ( _How does she know?_ ) and slapped it aside. Blows rained down, as the Retcon tag-teamed him from within: buckling his knees, deadening his arms.  
  
Barely a minute passed before it was over.  
  
He squinted up at her, through the swimming dusk, as she demurely wiped blood from her mouth on to one of his monogrammed napkins, and produced a lipstick. The whine the tube emitted as she twisted it made him clench his teeth.  
  
“Who... who looks at a lipstick and thinks, ‘This could be a little more sonic’?”  
  
“It’s a loan. Like I said, it pays to have friends in the Press.” She peered at the tube thoughtfully, then brightened. “Scan for alien tech complete. We should have known. Of course you would have parked her on the roof. Sometimes you have a memory like a sieve.”  
  
Malcolm raised himself, with infinite labour, on his elbow. “You... you keep saying ‘we’. If your friend is this hero, why doesn’t he face me himself? Why... why does he send a little Earth girl to do his dirty work?”  
  
“Good question. Why isn’t he here, Malcolm? What’s the only Law you’ve never broken?”  
  
He blanched. “First Law. No... No, it can’t be...”  
  
“It is. That’s why it’s so important you forget me. These are your head-waters – the furthest up your time-stream I’ve ever been. Odd, really. Most streams get cleaner, further up.”  
  
“Why are you here?”  
  
“My associate made me, Malcolm. Now, I’m returning the favour. I’m here to reprogramme the destination co-ordinates for that Chula ship you have cloaked on your roof. When you lose this city, you’re going to run. I’m making sure you run to the right place. It has to be the Second World War, you see. The Twentieth Century is when everything changes.” She sighed. “For a thousand years, you’ll have no idea why she took you there, until you see the notice of this party on the Net, and it breaks the Retcon’s spell. We’re riding a predestination paradox. Hold on tight, and try not to throw up.”  
  
Darkness was yawning, but still he fought against it. “You won’t get away with this.”  
  
“I already have. Your CCTV is fritzed, and I even slipped poor Mr. Roebuck some Retcon. You taught me more than enough to trap you, Malcolm Merlyn.”  
  
“Lady, I don’t care what it does to the Continuum: the next time we meet, I’ll tear down your world.”  
  
She looked sad. “Yes. You will. Sleep well, Malcolm. I’ll be seeing you.”  
  
Her steps were soft on the carpet as she left.  
  
FINIS

**Author's Note:**

> Gwen quotes from The Song of Hiawatha (10.1-2).


End file.
